Page 102 of The Hidden One

I go to the babies and kneel. They’re tiny things, as soft as stuffed animals, and don’t weigh more than five or so pounds each.

Tomasetti comes up beside me, kneels, and picks up one of the babies. I hear the mama goat behind me, shuffling around, poking her head between us to keep an eye on her newborn.

“I think you’re making Mama nervous,” I say.

“She and I got to know each other pretty well this morning.”

“You helped her have her kids?” I ask, easing my arm from the sling.

“She’s a trouper.” Tomasetti places the kid in my arms. “Support its head and belly. Like that. There you go.”

I look down at the tiny creature and I feel a quiver in my chest. “Tomasetti, you’re not going soft on me, are you?”

“I roughed these little guys up pretty good earlier,” he says, deadpan. “Showed them who’s boss.”

“You tough guys are all the same.” I laugh. “We work too much to have livestock.”

“They’re easy keepers. Good milk producers, too,” he says. “I know how you feel about goat cheese.”

“You would bring up my weakness for goat cheese.” Seeing that the other two babies have gone to their mama to nurse, I lower the one I’m holding to the ground.

I don’t look at Tomasetti as I rise and leave the stall. I can’t. I’m overcome with emotion and close to making a fool of myself. Over baby goats of all things.

He follows me to the aisle, holds back. I stand with my back to him, blinking furiously, feeling awkward and embarrassed, knowing his eyes are on me and he’s wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

After a moment, he touches my arm. “Kate.”

When I don’t face him, he gently turns me to him. I let him, keep my eyes on the floor.

“I take it this isn’t about the goats,” he says.

I laugh, but it’s an emotional sound, accentuated by the silence of the barn. My intake of breath sounds a little like a sob.

When I trust my emotions not to betray me, I raise my gaze to his. His eyes search my face. He knows there’s something going on. He isn’t sure what. Looking for its source.

“Tough trip?” he asks.

I think about it a moment, trying to pinpoint exactly what’s got me so out of sorts, and in that instant, I realize none of this is about the trip or the things that happened in the course of the investigation. It’s about us and the world we live in. The passage of time. The fragility of life. The wheel that never stops.

“You think you have all the time in the world,” I tell him. “Sometimes you don’t and if you don’t pay attention, you risk losing something precious.”

He cocks his head, looks at me more closely. “Where is this coming from?”

“I’ve spent a lot of time running away from … us,” I tell him. “From what we have. There were times when I didn’t appreciate it. I was wrong to do that to you. I think there was always a small part of me that felt as if I didn’t deserve it.”

He absorbs the words with a calm that is classic Tomasetti. “Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t want to screw this up.”

A smile whispers across his features, but it’s not patronizing. It’s thoughtful and compassionate and in that moment, I realize he gets it. He gets me.

“I’m still here.” He raises his hand, sets his palm against the side of my face. “Somehow, I think we’re going to muddle through.”

The words bring me dangerously close to tears. “Bishop Troyer won’t marry us,” I tell him.

If he’s surprised that I’ve asked the bishop about administering our marriage vows, he doesn’t show it. “We’ll find someone else.”

“There’s a Mennonite church. In Sugarcreek. I talked to the pastor.”