An Amish Christmas. Patricia DavidsЧитать онлайн книгу.
kept silent and waited as John made his own search. One look at his face made her realize John Doe was still a wounded man, but he was in need of more than physical care.
Chapter Three
John stared at the matted grass around his feet. No trace of the incident remained. No blood stains, no footprints, no proof that he had ever lain here.
Squatting down, he touched the grass and waited for an answer to appear. Why had he been in this place?
Had his injury been an accident or had someone deliberately tried to kill him? Had it been a robbery gone bad as the sheriff thought? No matter what the explanation, the fact remained that he’d been left here to die. The knowledge brought a sick feeling to the pit of his stomach.
Standing, he shoved his hands in his pockets and scanned the horizon. All around him lay farm fields. To the east, a wooded hill showed yellow and crimson splashes of autumn colors. A cold breeze flowed around his face. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, hoping to trigger some hint of familiarity.
Nothing.
He searched his empty mind for some sliver of recognition and drew a blank.
He’d been so sure coming here would make him remember. This was where his old life ended. He wanted to see the scattered bits of it lying at his feet. He wanted to pick up the puzzle pieces and assemble them into something recognizable. Only there was nothing to pick up.
Now what?
He glanced toward the buggy where Karen sat. He’d been found on her land. Did she know more than she was letting on? Sitting prim and proper with her white head covering and somber clothes, it was hard to imagine she could be involved in something as ugly as an assault. But what did he know about her, anyway? Maybe coming here had been a mistake. He would proceed with caution until he knew more about her and her family.
She watched him silently. As their eyes met, he read sympathy in their depths. Turning away he bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. The pain overrode the sting of unshed tears. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted answers.
John didn’t know how long he stood staring into the distance. Eventually, Molly grew impatient and began pawing the ground. He glanced at Karen. She drew her coat tight under her chin. He realized the sun was going down and it was getting colder.
Walking back to the buggy, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long.”
She smiled softly. “I don’t mind, but I think Molly wants her grain.”
“Then we should go.” Walking around to the opposite side he climbed in.
“Did you remember anything?” she asked.
“No.” He stared straight ahead as his biggest fear slithered from the dark corner of his mind into the forefront. What if he never remembered? What if this blankness was all he’d ever have?
No, he refused to accept that. He had family, friends, a job, a home, a car, a credit card, a bank account, something that proved he existed. His life was out there waiting for him. He wouldn’t give up until he found it.
When they reached the farmyard, Karen drew the mare to a stop in front of a two-story white house. A welcoming porch with crisp white railings and wide steps graced the front. Three large birdhouses sat atop poles around the yard ringed with flowerbeds. Along one side of the house several clotheslines sagged under the weight of a dozen pairs of pants, dresses, shirts, socks and sheets all waving in the cool evening breeze.
Across a wide expanse of grass stood a large red barn and several outbuildings. In the corral, a pair of enormous caramel-colored draft horses munched on a round hay bale with a dozen smaller horses around them. Molly whinnied to announce her return. The herd replied in kind.
John swallowed hard against the pain in his chest. What did his home look like? Was someone waiting to greet him? Were they worried sick about where he was? If that was the case, why hadn’t they come forward?
Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face. Karen laid her hand on his. The warmth of her touch flooded through him.
Sympathy had prompted Karen’s move. She saw and understood the struggle he was going through. “Let God be your solace, John. He understands all that you are going through. You are not alone.”
John nodded, but didn’t speak.
Karen turned to get out of the buggy but froze. Her stern-faced father stood before her. He looked from John to Karen and demanded, “What is the meaning of this, daughter?”
Stepping down from the buggy, she brushed the wrinkles from the front of her dress. “Papa, this is Mr. John Doe. John, this is my father, Eli Imhoff. Papa, I have rented a room to Mr. Doe.”
Eli Imhoff’s dark bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You have, have you?”
Karen had learned the best way to handle her father was to charge straight ahead. She switched to Pennsylvania Dutch, the German dialect normally spoken in Amish homes, knowing John would not be able to understand them. “I will show him to his room and then I will speak with you about this.”
“Better late than never, I’m thinking,” Eli replied in the same language.
“I’m sure you’ll agree this was a goot idea. You know we need the money. The dawdy haus is sitting empty. This is only for a week, and he is paying us the same amount that Emma charges her customers.”
“And if I say nee?”
She acquiesced demurely. “Then I shall drive him back to town. Although Emma has no room for him at her inn I’m sure he can find someplace to stay.”
John spoke up. “Look, if this is a problem I can make other arrangements.”
Karen crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow as she waited for her father to answer.
The frown her father leveled at her said they would hold further discussions on the matter when they were alone. Looking to John, he said, “You are welcome to stay the night.”
“Thank you, sir. I promise not to be any trouble.”
“You are the man my daughter found on the road, ja?”
“I am. I want to thank you for your help that day.”
“We did naught but our Christian duty,” Eli said, turning away.
As her father disappeared into the house, Karen swung back to John. “Come. You will have a house to yourself. It has its own kitchen, sitting room and bedroom. It is the dawdy haus but my grandparents have both passed away and it is not in use. You may take your meals with us unless you enjoy cooking.”
“What is a dawdy haus?” John asked as he pulled his small bag from behind the buggy seat.
“It means grandfather house. Among our people it is common to add a room or home onto the farmhouse so that our elderly relatives have a place to stay. Many times we have three or four generations living together under one roof. It is our way.”
“Sounds like a good way to me.”
She smiled at that. “I’m glad you think so.”
He swept one hand in front of him. “Lead the way.” The dawdy haus had been built at a right angle to the main farmhouse. It was a single-story white clapboard structure with a smaller front porch. A pair of wooden chairs flanked a small table at the far end of the porch. The outside door opened into a small mudroom. A second door led directly into the kitchen.
Karen said, “We have gas lamps. Have you ever used them before?”
“I don’t know.”
She cringed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. There’s no point in tiptoeing around with your questions. Either I’ll remember a thing or I won’t.