Read the book: «Amish Country Undercover»

ONE

The hay crunched beneath a heavy foot, snapping Grace Miller to high alert. Earlier that night, she had thrown the straw across her barn floor as an alert system to tell her when the thief arrived. Now her makeshift alarm had sounded. She tensed, ready to catch him in the act this time.

Twice now, Grace had lost her father’s newly purchased horses. The thought of having to explain a third to the church elders and lose her daed’s job gave her the strength she needed to confront the thief now—even if no Amish woman would ever think of doing such a hazardous and ferhoodled thing.

From her hiding place in the far back stall, Grace quietly shifted from her sitting position onto her bare feet. She gripped her long blue skirt and matching apron in her fists and readied herself to spring up into action. She had a horse thief to catch.

Or most likely Leroy Mast.

Leroy had been pestering her to continue their courting, which had been put on hold six months ago when her mother passed away. But now Grace’s daed’s illness had propelled her into his role as the horse trader in the Amish community of Rogues Ridge, Kentucky. And if the bishop found out how far along Benjamin Miller’s Alzheimer’s had progressed, she would also be forced into another role in her community—most likely as a maidal woman in need of a husband. Just what Leroy wanted.

But did she?

Not if Leroy thought stealing her father’s horses would endear her to him. That wouldn’t be the type of mann she wanted—if she wanted one at all.

The hay crackled again as the intruder moved toward the horses in their stalls—here to take her life as she knew it away from her. If the intruder was Leroy Mast, he would find out right now that she was certain sure not having any of it—or him.

Listening carefully, waiting for the most opportune time to make her presence known, Grace leaned forward, hoping to tell when the thief reached the first horse’s stall. She turned an ear to detect any sound but heard only silence.

Holding her breath to be as quiet as possible led to aching lungs, and she had to refill them, realizing the only thing she could hear was her heart pounding in her ears. No other sounds drifted her way, not even the flapping lips of the sleeping horses. She felt ferhoodled at her slip. She must have simply imagined the crunching. Maybe it had been one of her horses shifting in its sleep.

That had to be it, she figured.

With a disgruntled sigh, Grace eased back onto her makeshift bedding. The pitchfork she’d used to fluff the hay earlier now leaned against the back of the wooden stall. Her white organdy kapp lay on the lumpy sack she had propped up to use as a pillow. Catching a thief in the act was proving to be a long and tiring endeavor, and most likely a ridiculous waste of time for an amateur like herself. There was a reason the English called on their police for this type of work. But not the Amish. They shied away from involving law enforcement in their business. Even if Sheriff Maddox had repeatedly made his willingness to help her known, she would not take him up on his offer. Ever since her mamm died in the buggy accident, the sheriff learned about her daed’s illness and took it upon himself to check in. He came by after the first theft occurred and wanted her to report it. But she could handle this on her own, even if it took all night.

Scooping up her kapp, she settled it back on her head and tied it in place. There would be no more dozing. She had to keep her wits about her if she hoped to succeed without involving the local law enforcement or the elders. Calling on either of them would bring her daed’s illness to Bishop Bontrager’s attention. Grace held out hope her father’s illness wouldn’t grow worse.

Thinking about Benjamin Miller had Grace frowning and biting her lower lip to halt any more tears. Nighttime was the hardest. She didn’t think it could be so, but most nights she spent thinking about and planning for what all his needs would require of her the next day.

But there never seemed to be adequate planning for what the day would bring.

By the time the sun shone over the ridge that shadowed her farmhouse and cornfields, Grace would find herself exhausted, with no rest in sight.

“Please, Gött, help me keep him safe,” she whispered. “Help me to know what to do and how to protect and care for him.” And help him not to forget me anymore.

The crunch came again.

Grace’s nerves shot back to full alert. She was certain sure that she wasn’t alone, after all. And in all the time she had relaxed, the thief had been creeping closer. There was no time to prepare. Grace quickly reached for the pitchfork with both hands, and in one movement, jumped to her feet and came running out of her stall.

“Leroy Mast, you leave my horses alone!” she yelled. Her voice carried weight and authority.

Except it was not Leroy who stood before her. It wasn’t an Amish man at all. Because no Amish man would ever hold a gun in his hand, never mind point it at someone.

Grace had expected to see Leroy, or perhaps a young Amish boy pranking her. Perhaps an elder setting her up for her own good, so the bishop could give her father’s job as the horse trader to an Amish man, a much more suitable choice than her.

But none of her ideas matched the grave reality before her.

All she could focus on was the black barrel of the handgun less than two feet from her eyes. Its ominous closeness meant nothing compared to the speed of the bullet that could come through it and sink into her flesh. Being Amish, she’d never fired a gun, but sometimes hunting was necessary, and her daed had a shotgun for such a case.

Oh, why didn’t I think to grab that, instead of this pitchfork?

Because I never dreamed this would happen.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the man aiming the gun on her said in a sad tone. “These are not your horses.”

Cautiously, Grace glanced up into the face of the gunman. In the dim light of moonbeams filtering through the windows and door, she could make out black, shaggy hair beneath a cap, but his eyes were in shadow behind the gun. Without seeing his face, she couldn’t tell why his tone of voice didn’t match his threatening stance.

A quick glance down showed he was dressed in full black attire, from his booted feet to the cap. Dark and sinister, maybe, but his deep voice didn’t correspond to the dark clothing, either. He sounded disappointed in her.

“I really wished I was wrong about you,” he said. He even sighed and shook his head.

More cues that didn’t match up.

Grace couldn’t follow his words. In the moment, her brain struggled to compute the whole scene, never mind what he meant about being wrong about her. The only thoughts running through her mind were of escape.

In her peripheral vision, she saw the heads of the horses, watching from their stalls. She silently prayed for their protection as her gaze swung back to the gun. Grace became aware of a large lump growing in her throat. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. She finally managed to gasp, “The sheriff knows.”

The words were meant to warn the man and cause him to run, but instead, he gave a short laugh. His head lifted a bit as the jovial sound slipped from his lips.

That’s when she saw he wasn’t alone.

The silhouette of another gunman at the door also had his gun aimed right at her. She couldn’t make out his face at all, but she could tell by his outline that he wore a cowboy hat perched low on his head, and he was much shorter than the man in front of her. But height didn’t matter when one had a gun.

“What do you want?” Grace whispered, as her gaze flitted between the two men. Fear threaded through her words even as her hands tightened around the handle of the pitchfork. “Are you the ones stealing the horses?”

“Ones?” the man in front of her said and turned his head to look behind him.

In that instant, Grace had a choice to make. Stand and be shot or make a run for it. With the pitchfork still in her grasp, she took the opportunity to thrust it at the man in front of her. As he stumbled back, she veered around him, heading for the side door.

Two gunshots rang out behind her. Grace ducked her head as the bullets whooshed by her and splintered the wood frame of the door she ran toward. Two shots meant for her that missed their mark, but there would surely be more that might not. She could not stop running.

She reached the door and flung it wide, bursting out into the pitch darkness just as multiple gunshots went off. Throwing herself to the ground with her hands up over her head, she felt the hard gravel bite into her cheek. But adrenaline had her moving again, scuttling forward a few feet with her head low. Then she lifted her face with the goal of seeking safety. The refuge of her home was straight ahead...but still so far. The structure was dark, with no candles or lanterns burning in the windows. Grace prayed for it to stay that way.

But nothing was going the way she had planned tonight, for the upstairs bedroom in the far right corner lit up as a lantern’s flame burned bright.

The gunshots had awoken her father.

More shots rang out behind her, and Grace began to run even before she stood up completely. She had to get to him before these men did. Nothing could stop her, not even the blasts behind her.

With her head bent low, she scrunched up her long dress and apron in her hands and ran all the way to the porch stairs. Tiny rocks flew up with each step and hit the backs of her calves. The hard wooden boards of the stairs scraped her bare feet when she reached them and took them two at a time. The door beckoned; she was almost there. But just as she reached the door, it swung wide and Benjamin Miller blocked her way.

Grace barreled into her father’s chest with a loud oof. “Daed! Get down!” she gasped. She tried to push him back.

“Intruder!” her father hollered. Anger filled his face as he stared at her.

Tears of fear filled Grace’s eyes. “Please, Daed. Get back inside.” She pushed on his chest with all her might, but even in his weakened condition she couldn’t budge him.

He leaned close and yelled in her face, “Intruder! Get off my land!”

Grace wanted to cry at his lapse of memory of her, but then another gunshot went off behind her. Desperate, she grabbed her daed’s bearded face and forced him to look into her eyes. “Daedi, it’s me, ya? It’s your Grace. Your daughter.” She willed him to see her, rising up on her tiptoes to get closer.

“Was ist letz?” Benjamin Miller squinted at her in a fogged state. “Grace?”

“Ya, it’s Grace. Komm. We have to get inside.” She pushed him again, and this time he allowed her to steer him backward into the safety of their home. Grace slammed the door behind them just as another shot rang out in what had become a nightmare of a night.

But this wasn’t a dream Grace could wake up from. Just like her father’s illness, it was a trial she would have to face head-on—and alone.

Jack Kaufman held his gun close and ready to fire again. A simple arrest for a horse theft had turned dangerous. As an FBI special agent, he was put on this case when an anonymous caller from the local racetrack reported a stolen horse. A little digging and Jack found the missing thoroughbred at an overseas illegal betting operation. The transporting of the animal across borders brought the theft into his jurisdiction, so here he was in a sleepy little Kentucky town planning to close this case tonight. He had hoped to make his arrest and get back to fighting some tougher crimes.

Boy, did I misjudge that.

Never had he thought he would walk straight into a shootout on an Amish farm. He also never thought a pretty Amish woman would be involved. Any Amish, for that matter.

“Never a dull moment on this job,” he mumbled, and scanned the tree line for the gunman who had nearly taken him out, back in the barn. He grimaced at how close he had come to lights out. A glance in the direction of the farmhouse had Jack wondering if the woman had fared as well. He shouldn’t care, since it was her partner who could have killed him. Whether she was hurt or not, he would deal with her after he apprehended the shooter.

He shifted position to behind the outhouse, closer to the forest. No shot went off, and he wondered if the guy was long gone. Jack silently scoffed at the idea of the woman teaming up with this bad guy with a gun. No Amish person he’d ever known dealt with guns. He hoped he lived to find out her reason, and it better be good.

For now, he had to figure out if the shooter was still out there gunning for him.

Jack crouched low and patted the ground with his free hand, still holding his gun at the ready. His fingers brushed against hard dirt. He stretched farther until he felt a rock. Throwing it might expose his body to the shooter more than he wanted, but it would be worth the risk if an ensuing gunshot determined the guy’s position.

He located two good-sized stones, and after tucking one in his jeans pocket, he searched for a safe place to throw the other, one where a bullet wouldn’t hit anyone. A shadowed clearing near more trees and the towering cliff seemed to be the best.

In as silent a motion as he could manage, Jack hurled the rock toward the clearing and quickly stepped back into the protection of the small structure. He listened for the smack and roll of the rock against the hard earth. Then he braced for the reaction.

Nothing.

Seconds ticked into minutes before he tried again, with the second stone.

When only the silence of the night followed, he figured his shooter had hightailed it out of here.

For now.

The man would be back for the horse that the woman had stolen for him that day at the racetrack. Earlier, at the Autumn Woods Ranch and Racetrack, Jack had watched her tie the horse to her buggy and drive away without anyone realizing she had just stolen a thoroughbred right out from under their noses.

No one suspected the thief to be a pretty, demure Amish woman. But her little conniving and criminal operation would end tonight—before someone did get killed.

This woman had no idea who she was in cahoots with. They would surely kill her when they had no more use for her. She had to be ferhoodled if she thought otherwise.

Jack snickered at his use of a word he hadn’t uttered for nearly eight years. Not since his Amish days before—

He pushed the thought away and made his way back to the barn. His path was now clear to get the horse he was here to collect.

Right inside the door, he located a lantern, and soon had it lit and burning. Some things were like riding a bicycle, even the bicycles he hadn’t been allowed to ride back where he had lived. Most Amish communities felt the commercially produced bicycles were too worldly and too fast, and opted instead for simple, two-wheeled scooters they could stand on.

Either way, those days were long gone and would never return, if he had something to say about it.

Jack held the lantern high to peruse the individual stalls. He counted three horses. One had to be the horse the woman had stolen earlier from the track. Were the others also stolen thoroughbreds? Just how deep was she into this heist? How many more had she taken and sold before someone realized?

The dim light showed each animal was a beautiful creature. The trader knew how to pick a good horse.

Or steal one.

“Hey there,” Jack said in a soothing tone, so as not to spook the creature he approached first. He lifted his free hand to caress the side of the horse’s head and was greeted with a soft snicker. “That’s it. Just let me see your lip.”

Jack lifted the equine’s upper lip to reveal the permanent identification number tattooed above the row of teeth.

Not one of the numbers he was looking for. Not even the right kind of horse.

This was a standardbred, not one of the stolen thoroughbreds.

Jack took his lantern to the next stall and repeated the routine. This horse also allowed him access without a snub.

And proved to not be the stolen property.

A niggling doubt crept into his mind. Had he been wrong about the woman? Maybe he had missed the real thief because she had caught his eye for some reason.

Jack chided himself for thinking such a thing. An Amish woman was not for him. No woman was while he was on the case.

But he had to admit to himself that Grace Miller was a beautiful woman. Her hair matched the stunning chestnut color of the horse before him, but it was her wide blue eyes that drew attention to her pretty face. Why she wasn’t already married was beyond him. Most Amish couples settled down at a young age. She had to be nearing twenty-five. So what happened?

“None of my concern,” he muttered, answering his own wandering thoughts. He focused on the task at hand. Finding the thief.

Jack moved to the last horse in the barn and stopped short.

“I think we have a winner,” he whispered, and paused to observe the stoic horseflesh before him. Even before Jack held out a hand to touch the smooth, sleek neck of the animal, he knew he was looking at a thoroughbred. This one demanded respect just with the tilt of his head. His coat rippled with tension. “I know it was loud in here tonight,” Jack said, speaking with reverence. “But you’ll be home in your own stall soon. I promise.”

Jack eased his hand slowly toward the muzzle and was glad when the horse deemed him worthy to touch him further. A quick lift of the lip revealed the correct numbers and letter configuration he’d been looking for.

Jack let the horse go and stepped back. A growing disappointment percolated through him. A glance in the direction of the house was followed by a frown. “And someone else will be getting a stall tonight. But hers will be at the county’s holding cell.”

Jack put the lantern up on the ledge of the stall and grabbed some tack. He opened the door and slowly approached the equine with palms up. The horse stepped back, but only once. Jack secured the lead quickly and had him out of the stall and the barn within moments.

Jack’s waiting truck and trailer were hidden at the end of the drive, as he hadn’t wanted to reveal his presence until he knew if the stolen horse was really here. He needed to call his supervisor and relay the events, but until any other missing horses were found, Jack wanted to wait. His best course of action would be to bring the woman in and get her to talk about their whereabouts.

Jack brought the horse to the trailer and loaded him up. He moved his truck to the house and prepared to make his arrest. Sitting behind the wheel here in the farmyard reminded him how different his current life was from his past.

But once he entered the farmhouse, how much of his past would come back? He wanted none of it.

After locking the truck up, he made his way up the steps and knocked hard on the door. “Open up! FBI! I have a warrant for your arrest. Don’t make me come in there.” Please, don’t make me come in there.