Amish Refuge

In addition to the food, Emma had also provided a clean change of clothes—an Amish dress that she’d pulled from the blanket chest sitting in the corner of the room, along with an apron. Miriam considered herself a jeans-and-sweater type of gal, but the dress fit and she appreciated having something other than a flannel nightgown to wear.

Emma, probably mid-to-late twenties, was a foot shorter than Miriam with a pretty complexion and a sweet smile. She also exuded an abundance of patience as she showed Miriam how to straight-pin the dress at the bodice and waist. Working together, they had subdued Miriam’s somewhat unruly hair and twisted it into a bun.

Spying a number of skeins of yarn along with crochet hooks and knitting needles in the blanket chest and, knowing she needed some outlet for the nervous energy that swelled within her, Miriam had asked if she could use the yarn to make a scarf for her newfound friend.

Emma seemed to appreciate the offer and her eyes sparkled as she lumbered to the door. Miriam couldn’t help but notice the deformed angle of her left foot that caused her to limp.

The Amish woman’s handicap was obvious. Miriam clasped her hands to her heart, wondering about her own wounds, growing up within a dysfunctional family.

Maybe here in the quiet of this Amish home, she would quell the turmoil that had been the norm in her life for far too long. Then she thought of all that had happened and realized she was asking too much. Some scars cut too deep.

Sighing, she wrapped her arms around her waist and jerked when her finger snagged against the sharp tip of one of the straight pins. A bead of blood surfaced almost instantly. She glanced around the room, looking for a box of tissues. Seeing none, she neared the porcelain pitcher and washbowl on the oak dresser. After pouring water over her finger, she dried her hands on the thick towel and repositioned the pin to prevent another prick.

Footsteps sounded, coming up the stairs. Her heart pounded, expecting Abram to open the door. Confusion had rocked her the last time he had done so. As much as she appreciated him giving her shelter for the night, she didn’t want to face his penetrating eyes and stern gaze.

Miriam had seen the sheriff’s car in the drive. Had Abram mentioned the woman hiding in his house?

The steps drew nearer. A knock at the door. “May I enter?”

His voice was deep, stilted. Did she detect an edge of impatience?

She wrung her hands to calm the trembling that came unbidden. What was wrong with her? She had done nothing wrong.

Again flashes of memories washed over her. Hot tears burned her eyes. She wiped at her cheeks, needing to be clear-headed and alert when she faced this giant of a man. No doubt he would question who she was and why she had stumbled into his life.

Another knock.

She stepped to the door and ever so slowly pulled it open. He stood on the other side, too close. Much too close.

Her breath hitched. She took a step back, needing to distance herself from his bulk and the smell of him that filled her nostrils with a mix of fresh soap and mountain air.

His hair, now neatly brushed back from his forehead, fell to where his beard hugged his square jaw, framing his face and accentuating the crystal blue of his eyes.

He dropped his gaze, taking in the simple dress she wore. Pain swept his face. He swallowed hard. “I will be downstairs. We need to talk.” Without further explanation, he closed the door, his footsteps heavy as he descended the stairs.

She didn’t want to talk to him. Not now. Not when so much had happened. If only she could find her cell phone. She needed to call Hannah. Her older sister had always known what she wanted, and it hadn’t been to remain in Tennessee with a mother who showed the classic signs of early onset Alzheimer’s.

Miriam needed help and someone to lean on for support.

Abram’s broad shoulders came to mind.

She shook her head. She couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust any man, not even the Amish man who had saved her life.

THREE (#ue06aa252-b2ab-588f-8393-180bd5cd8139)

Standing at the kitchen counter, Abram gulped down the last swig of coffee and wondered again about what had brought the mysterious woman to his door.

Should he have told Samuel? Her fear the night before had made Abram hesitant about revealing her presence. Thankfully his uncle had not asked him point-blank about the woman. Abram would not lie, but he need not divulge information that could terrorize her even more.

He placed the mug in the sink and rubbed his temple to still the pressure that had built up over the long hours he had tried to sleep. Seeing the woman wearing Rebecca’s clothing had been a new stab to his heart. Of course, Emma had not realized the effect it would have on him.

The woman needed clothes to wear while her own things were being washed. His sister was shorter than their visitor, so offering Rebecca’s dress had been a practical solution, except for what it had done to his equilibrium.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

He startled at the sound of the woman’s voice and turned to face his guest. “I did not hear you come down the stairs.”

His heart lurched again, seeing her in Rebecca’s dress. He gripped the kitchen counter to steady himself and to make certain he was in the present and not dreaming of his wife yet with another face.

In an attempt to slow his racing heart, he searched for common ground. “The coffee is hot.”

She shook her head. A strand of hair fell over her pale cheek. “I’m full from breakfast.”

“Then you had enough to eat?”

“More than enough. I’m grateful for your hospitality.”

“I do not know your name.”

“Miriam,” she quickly replied.

He waited, expecting more. Then, when she failed to respond, he raised his brow. “Should you not have a family name, as well?”

“Of course.” Her face flushed. “It’s Miller.”

“Your father’s name?”

“Actually, it was my mother’s surname.” She paused before adding, “My mother lived in Willkommen as a child. I was headed there to find her sister, but I got lost on the mountain roads. Is the town far?”

“Ten miles at most.”

She took a step closer, her gaze expectant. “Then you might know Annie Miller.”

“I know Eli Miller. His wife’s name is Hattie. Perhaps your aunt has married?”

“I... I...” She faltered. “I don’t know. My mother had only recently mentioned that she had a sister.”

“You should ask more from your mother.”

She wrung her hands. “I could call my sister if I had my phone.”

“Could your phone have dropped from your pocket?” he offered, hoping to soothe her unease.

“Maybe. I’m not sure. What about a computer? I mentioned it upstairs, but you didn’t answer me. Don’t some Amish people use computers for business?”

“I do not have electricity to run a computer, nor a computer. That is not the way I live.”

She held up her hand. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”