Amish Refuge. Debby Giusti

of night?”

      Coming toward him, she gasped, seeing the woman in his arms. “Gott help us.”

      “Gott help this woman,” Abram countered.

      He carried her to the rocker near the wood-burning stove and gently placed her on the chair.

      Emma retrieved the lantern from the table but stopped short when the screech of tires pulled her gaze to the still open doorway. “Abram, look.”

      He glanced to where his sister pointed, seeing headlights approaching much too fast along the icy road.

      “Stay with the woman.”

      Emma reached for his arm. “You cannot save the Englisch from their foolish ways. Do not get involved.”

      He shrugged off her warning. “The bridge is out. I must alert the driver.”

      Abram stepped onto the porch. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark night.

      “Take the lantern,” Emma insisted from the doorway.

      Ignoring the request, he ran toward the road, flailing his arms to flag down the oncoming vehicle.

      The car screeched to a stop. The driver lowered the window. Abram raised his hand to his eyes, unable to see the driver’s face in the glare of the headlights.

      “Did a car pass by here?” the man demanded, his voice as brittle as the ice on the roadway.

      “The bridge is out. You must take the other fork in the road.” Abram pointed to where the narrow country path split.

      The man glanced back. “Did she go that way?”

      Abram would not betray the woman he had cradled against him. “Your car is the first I have seen tonight.”

      Cursing, the man turned his vehicle around and screeched away from Abram. The back wheels spun on the slick pavement. He took the fork and accelerated.

      Abram hurried back to the house.

      Emma locked the door behind him. “Who was that man?” she asked.

      “I do not know.”

      “He was looking for the woman.” She stated what they both knew was true.

      “Perhaps, but he will not find her tonight.”

      “I tell you, Abram, she will bring trouble to this house.”

      “She is in need, Emma. We will take her upstairs.”

      He lifted the woman into his arms and felt her startle. “I have you. You are safe.”

      She was thin, too thin.

      His sister held the lantern aloft and climbed the stairs ahead of him. On the second floor she pushed open the door to the extra bedroom.

      As Abram stepped past her, light from the lantern spilled over the woman’s pale face. His sister inhaled sharply.

      He glanced down, taking in the blood that spattered her clothing, the gash to her forehead and the scrapes to her hands and wrists.

      His heart lurched.

      What had happened to this woman on the run?

      * * *

      “You are awake?”

      Miriam blinked her eyes open to daylight filtering through the window then turned her gaze to the man standing in the doorway of the small bedroom where she lay. He had a ruddy, wind-burned complexion with a dark beard and shaggy black hair that fell below his ears. His white shirt hugged his broad chest and puckered against the suspenders attached to his trousers.

      Her mind slowly put the pieces together as she glanced from his clothing to the stark bedroom furnishings and back again to her larger-than-life rescuer. Was she dreaming or had she somehow, in the dead of night, found refuge in an Amish house?

      Memories flashed through her mind. Struggling to put her thoughts in order, she tugged the quilt closer to her chin.

      His brow knit. “You are afraid?”

      Of him? Should she be?

      She glanced behind the man to where a woman stood. Petite, with wide eyes and rosy cheeks, she wore a pale blue dress and white apron. Her hair was pulled into a bun under a starched cap. Miriam strained to remember, recalling only snippets of how the woman had tended her cut and dressed her in a flannel nightgown. At least that much she could recall.

      The Amish man turned to the woman next to him. “Emma, she needs to eat.”

      Miriam shook her head. Food wasn’t important. Being free of Serpent was all that mattered. Then, just that fast, her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t had more than a few crackers in four days.

      Gathering her courage, she swallowed hard and gave voice to the question that pinged through her head. “Who...who are you?”

      “My name is Abram. We will talk soon.”

      He stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind him.

      “Wait,” she called.

      The door opened again. He stared at her, his face drawn, eyes pensive.

      Was he friend or foe? She couldn’t tell.

      “My cell,” she explained. “I need to make a phone call.”

      “I do not have your cell,” he stated.

      “But it was in my hand, then I dropped it into my pocket.” She raised her voice for emphasis. “You have my clothes.”

      He glanced at the woman. He’d called her Emma. Was she his wife?

      “You have found a phone?” he asked.

      “No, Brother.” The woman shook her head. “A phone was not among her clothing.”

      “That can’t be right,” Miriam objected. Why couldn’t they both understand? “Do you know what a cell phone looks like?”

      The man pursed his lips. His face clouded, either with anger or frustration. “My sister did not find a cell phone among your things.”

      “Do you have a phone? A landline? Or a computer with internet access?”

      He raised his hand as if to silence her. “You must eat. Then we will talk.” The door closed.

      Miriam groaned with frustration. She threw off the covers, dropped her feet to the floor and sat upright. Her head throbbed and her mouth was thick as cotton. Gingerly, she touched her side, remembering the blow to her ribs.

      Her muscles ached and the room swirled when she stood. Holding on to the wooden bedframe, she pulled back the sheer material that covered the window and glanced outside. In the distance she could see hills and a winding road, no doubt, the one she had raced along last night. She shivered, remembering her car careering over the embankment and heading for the icy water.

      The muffled sound of a door slamming on the first floor forced her gaze to the yard below. The man left the house and walked with purposeful strides across the dormant winter grass. He had donned a black coat and felt hat with a wide brim and turned his head, left to right, as if to survey his land as he walked.

      A crow cawed overhead. She strained to hear the sounds that usually filled her ears, of cars and sirens and train whistles. Here the quiet was as pristine as the landscape.

      Glancing again at the man, she touched her hand to the windowpane, the cold glass taking her back four days.

      A jumble of images flashed through her mind. The middle-of-the-night traffic stop on the mountain road. Two cops, one with the serpent tattoo insisting she leave her car. Her mother’s confused outrage, escalating the situation until the second man stepped to the pavement and brandished his gun. The shots rang in her memory.

      She closed her eyes, unwilling to go deeper into the tragedy.