Page 99 of Fallen

Neither Dan nor Rhoda was born yesterday. They know their granddaughter was out here, riding like the wind. Even so, I suspect both of them have learned something important in the wake of Rachael’s death. Something that feels a little bit like … forbearance.

Nodding, Rhoda steps forward, runs her hand over the animal’s sweaty shoulder. “He’s young,” she says. “Looks strong, too.”

“He’s too strong,” Dan grumbles from his place in the buggy. “Pushes too hard. Shies in traffic.”

“He’s the fastest trotter in all of Painters Mill,” Fannie tells him.

Dan grunts. “We’ve already got a buggy horse.”

“Nellie’s getting old, Dan.” Rhoda touches the braids with her fingertips. “Got a nice mane on him and just look at that pink nose.”

Knowing he’s being played, but sensing this is an important moment, Dan leaves the buggy and crosses to the horse in question. He smooths his hand over the animal’s rump, frowning dubiously.

“Needs work,” he mutters.

“Good buggy horse costs a pretty penny,” Rhoda counters.

I shrug. “If you find someone to work with him, he might just surprise you.”

Fannie clears her throat and climbs down from the horse. “I can do it,” she says quietly. “Train him, I mean. Turn him into a better horse.”

“Riding a horse…” Frowning at his wife, Dan shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Is no place for a girl.”

Rhoda waves off the comment. “En bisli gevva un namma is net en shlecht ding, eh?” A little give-and-take is not a bad thing, eh?

I look at Fannie. “I think that’s called compromise,” I say to her. When the girl says nothing, I add, “It takes two.”

Dan looks at his granddaughter over the rim of his glasses. “You think you can do this thing?”

“Ja.” She says the word a little too quickly.

“You have to stop running him,” the Amish man tells her. “Train him to be calm and steady so he’s safe on the road.”

“I can do it,” she says.

Rhoda looks at me. “Thank you for finding her for us, Kate Burkholder.”

I nod, then turn my attention to Fannie, and I wait until the girl meets my gaze. “Vann du broviahra hatt genunk, du finna vassannahshtah mechta sei faloahra,” I say. When you try hard enough, you find what otherwise might be lost.

I hope the girl understands that the phrase encompasses more than one meaning. That one is more complex than the other, and yet both are equally important.

CHAPTER 43

A spring storm hovers on the western horizon when I pull into the gravel lane of the farm I share with Tomasetti. It’s dusk and I can just make out the occasional flicker of lightning within the roiling clouds. I roll down the window, breathe in the fragrant air, humid and rich with the smell of growing things and life. For the first time in days, I notice the new foliage on the trees that grow alongside the driveway. The grass in the pasture is an ocean of green, made even greener by the slant of sun beaming through the thunderheads.

I park behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe, grab my laptop case, and start toward the house. I’m midway to the back door when I hear the clang! of a hammer against something solid. I round the corner and a few yards away, down the hill about halfway to the pond, Tomasetti stands next to a stone firepit that wasn’t there when I left this morning. Yellow and orange flames dance a couple of feet into the air, illuminating the circle of meticulously placed stone and the sight of a man I suddenly can’t wait to touch.

“You’ve been busy,” I call out as I make my way down the incline.

He turns. My heart stutters in my chest when his eyes sweep over me. His expression warms as he takes my measure. “If you want someone to stay out of trouble,” he says, “give them a job.”

I break into a run, drop my laptop case on the bench seat, and go to him. Holding his gaze, I put my arms around his neck, and fall against him, set my face against his shoulder.

“If I’d known building a firepit would get me that kind of reaction,” he says, “I’d have done it a long time ago.”

Laughing, I pull back, give him a playful punch on the arm.

“What do you think?” he asks.