Where Shadows Meet(83)

“We keep kerosene for our lanterns and such,” Sarah put in. “The heat could have caused a container to explode.”

“It looked like an arsonist burn pattern,” Matt said. “A row of flames where the accelerant had been poured. Someone torched your barn. The firemen will confirm it, I’m afraid.” He had no doubt about it. He would tell the fire chief what he’d seen and smelled.

“Who?” Hannah asked. “Reece?” Her voice was hoarse from smoke inhalation. Tears pooled in her eyes and slid down her cheeks, leaving streaks in the soot.

“That would be my guess. He’s trying to force you to go back to him. What better way than to target your loved ones, box you into a corner?”

Angie put her arm around Hannah. “Well, he can’t have her.”

Exactly Matt’s sentiments. The only problem was, he hadn’t figured out how he was going to keep her for himself once she knew the truth.


THEY’D MISSED HER aunt’s funeral, and Hannah never got to say good-bye. Tears burned the back of her throat as she glanced out over the collapsed barn. The shrill chirp of her cell phone was as unwelcome as the smell of smoke in her hair. She knew who it had to be.

She pulled out her cell phone and looked at the caller ID. Reece’s number. She didn’t want to talk to him, but she forced herself to lift the phone to her ear. “Reece, how could you burn down the barn?”

“I didn’t burn down the barn. I saw it was on fire, so I’m just calling to make sure you’re all right. Why do you always suspect me first?”

“Your track record speaks volumes,” she said. “I don’t believe you.” But his denial was so earnest.

“I know how much you love your horse. Lucy, isn’t it? Is she okay?”

Hannah closed her eyes briefly. Did she dare believe him? “If you didn’t torch the barn, who did? The Nero’s Cross symbol was painted on the barn.” The phone fell silent in her hand. She couldn’t even hear him breathing. “Reece?”

“I’m here.” His words were clipped. Angry. “I think I know who did it. But it wasn’t me. You have to believe me.”

Hannah found herself nodding. She could hear the truth in his voice. If not him, then who? “How did you get the baby here? After I fell down the steps?”

“Aw, hon, don’t hash up all that. Isn’t it enough to know she’s okay and we can get her back?”

“It would have taken at least six hours to drive from Wabash to here and back. I thought you were with me the whole time.”

He sighed. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. One of my drinking buddies helped me. That’s all you have to know.”

Hannah curled her fingers into her palm so tightly her nails bit into the flesh. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she imagined that wild ride in the dead of night with a crying baby. A daughter crying for her mommy. A baby who had been ripped from loving arms and placed in another home. Did her baby know she was adopted?

“Hannah? You there, hon?”

Hannah couldn’t choke out a sound. She closed her phone and turned it off.


BY NOONDAY, BUGGIES packed the driveway and yard and lined the road leading to the house. Their Amish friends came bearing food, shovels, and other tools to begin clearing away the debris as best they could with the intermittent downpours of rain. Dump trucks from various businesses they owned began to appear to haul away the wreckage. By breakfast the next day, much of the heap had been cleared and lumber began to arrive. Helpful Amish swarmed over the farm like busy ants intent on doing good.

Hannah had watched this scene play out many times, but her heart always warmed at the generosity of her people.

“I thought I would make coffee soup for breakfast,” Sarah said.

“What?” Angie gave a shudder.

“It’s good.” Hannah’s mouth watered at the thought. “She’ll pour coffee over saltines or bread—I like it best with saltines—then pour on milk and sugar. Wait until you try it.”

“I can wait. It sounds nasty. I like my coffee in a cup with cream and sugar.”

“It’s better than it sounds.” Hannah accepted the first bowl of coffee soup and carried it into the living room. The Amish flooding into the house jabbered in a mixture of German and English, and the familiarity brought her childhood flooding back. Mamm always fixed coffee soup for her birthday. She could still remember the first time she’d been allowed to have it— on her fifth birthday. She finished the coffee, milk, and crackers that made up the soup and asked for more. Her mother had obliged. The caffeine had kept Hannah chattering to her mother far into the night.

Even Angie admitted the coffee soup was pretty good. Hannah finished her food and pulled out her last quilt square. Angie put down her word processor, and her dark eyes studied Hannah.

“I shudder to say anything, but should I just call your editor and tell her you’re not going to make it?”

“I don’t see any way I’m going to get it done in time. The quilt still needs to be assembled and all the quilting done. Ask her if she’d be willing to use my grandmother’s quilt. The big one on Irene’s bed.”

“That won’t work. She wants one of your designs. I’ll just tell her you’ll make your original deadline.”