Amish Country Undercover. Katy Lee

man anything. He’d done nothing but invade her life and home, treating her like a criminal ever since he’d showed up with his gun drawn on her.

      But to say nothing in self-defense could land her in handcuffs.

      With her mind made up, she laid out the facts. “I’m the horse trader’s daughter. I’ve been helping my father with the dealings for as long as I can remember. It’s all I know.” Grace frowned, glancing at her daed. “And now...it’s up to me to take over the business—”

      “Your bishop will allow that?” Agent Kaufman interrupted.

      The air whooshed from Grace’s lungs. How did he know what to say to trip her up?

      He wanted the truth, but to tell him Bishop Bontrager would be receptive to her taking the reins from her father would be a lie. The elder had already made it clear he had someone in mind to take over the business when Benjamin was no longer up to the task.

      Grace reached for her father’s weakened hand. Squeezing it, she searched his eyes to see if he recognized her. His smile calmed her enough to continue. Her daed was beside her, giving her all she needed to impart the rest of the details to the agent.

      “I will lose my job,” she admitted, looking around the room. “And all you see here. The horse trader is supposed to be a man. It’s not right for a woman to be dealing with such things.”

      “You say that like you’ve memorized the rules, but don’t actually believe them.”

      Grace searched his face. Again, the man saw too much. “It’s been three months since I started going alone to the racetrack in my father’s place,” she admitted, instead of replying to his comment. “I’ve handled it competently. I meant for Bishop Bontrager to see my father taught me well.”

      “Did your father teach you to steal?”

      “No. Of course not. He taught me what to look for in a good buggy horse. He taught me how to place a bid on the horses that the track rejected for racing. Just because they aren’t fast enough for harness racing doesn’t mean they should be put to pasture. The Amish live a slow life. We don’t need fast horses.”

      “I know all about the slow life.”

      Grace squinted up at him, not sure how the man knew about her way of life. “You’ve interrogated other Amish people before?”

      He suppressed a laugh and looked out the window from the edge of the curtain, not responding.

      What did she expect? He was here for answers, not questions.

      “Go on,” he instructed, as he dropped the curtain and moved away from the window. He placed his gun in its holster and walked to the basin and water pump in the kitchen. He cranked the handle with ease, then brought the full basin back into the living room. “I said go on.”

      But Grace could only stare at him, wondering what he planned to do with the water. Until he knelt in front of her and reached for one of her ankles.

      She jerked her leg back. “No. You don’t have to do that.”

      “You just keep talking. I can’t be bringing my prisoner in with burned feet. My boss won’t take too kindly to that.” He pressed a cool, wet rag to the scorched sole.

      Grace inhaled sharply at the contact. She sighed as relief took over.

      Then his words propelled her to finish her side of the story. She couldn’t be taken anywhere, never mind prison. Her father needed her to keep things going at home.

      “I go to Autumn Woods every Tuesday and Saturday when they are testing their horses, and sit in the stands. When one fails the trainers’ tests, they look to the bidders and ask if anyone wants to buy it. I raise my hand when I see a horse that would be a good fit for the Amish. Like I said, my father taught me well. I know when to bid and when not to. They give me a ticket for each horse I buy, and I take them to the stables when I am ready to leave. I hand over the tickets, and they tie up my horses behind my buggy. That’s it.”

      “What price did you pay for the horse today?”

      Grace nodded at the desk across the room. “Twelve hundred. The papers are in the drawer. You’re welcome to look at them. You’ll see I paid a fair price for each one. I didn’t steal those horses.”

      Jack reached into a pocket on his pant leg. He took out a sheet of paper and showed her a list of numbers. “These are the identification codes of some of the stolen horses. These are the codes for thoroughbreds, not standardbreds. They are tattooed on the horses’ inner upper lip.”

      “I know all about the identifications. A thoroughbred begins with the letter of the year of its foaling, followed by four or five numbers.”

      “So you know a look when we go out there will prove one way or the other if any of those are the stolen horses, but I’ll save you the suspense. I already checked.”

      “And?”

      “And I wouldn’t still be here if you weren’t my thief.”

      Jack felt Grace stiffen under his touch. She was burned, but he knew her response had less to do with his ministrations and more to do with his accusation. He took the next foot and examined it. “This one looks better than the other. You must stomp heavier with your right foot. Ever thought of taking up square dancing?” He tried to lighten the mood, but his attempt at a joke fell flat. He wrapped the foot in the cool cloth and pressed gently. “Sorry, I forgot the Amish don’t dance. But we do sing.”

      “We?”

      Jack winced at his slip. “Old news. I grew up in a community in Colorado. I left eight years ago, when I was eighteen. End of story.”

      “That hardly sounds like the end of that story.”

      Jack shrugged and locked his gaze on Grace’s wide eyes. So inquisitive for the Amish, but then, Grace was unique all around. She was a fighter, and that in itself was as unlike the Amish as could be.

      Jack recollected his first glimpse of her in the barn, her pitchfork held high. He had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. She might think he was trying to make light of the situation again, and this really was no time to laugh about anything. Not when he was going to have to arrest her.

      “You have stolen goods on your property, or at least one of them,” he said, bringing the subject back to her. “You’ve told me your story, but it doesn’t explain how you ended up with a thoroughbred, instead of the standardbred you purchased.”

      “Th-thoroughbred?” She swallowed hard as her eyes filled with shock. Or most likely feigned shock. “H-how?” Her voice cracked.

      Jack bit back a smile. Even if she was faking it he found the sight of her bewilderment endearing. He could almost believe she was innocent in all this. Almost. “That’s what I’ve been asking you to explain. How did you switch the horse today without the stable hands not noticing?”

      Grace reached for the papers with the identification codes. As she silently read them her eyes grew wide in shock. “These are thoroughbred numbers. I can’t believe this. I didn’t even look at the identifications. I’ve just been concerned with showing the bishop I could handle the job.” She glanced toward the door and moved to stand up.

      “Whoa,” Jack said, keeping her down with a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll need to clear the woods before you go anywhere tonight.”

      “I have to protect that horse until I can get him back to the stables. Do you have any idea what a thoroughbred is worth? They are purebred.”

      “I’ve done my research, yes.”

      Her face blanched further. “I’ve already lost two horses to the thief. What if...” Her eyes searched his with growing fear. Shaking her