Upon A Winter's Night. Karen Harper

leaned closer and put her hand on Lydia’s arm. “Don’t dream too big. They might not even find the old article of the accident. Then, if you still don’t want to involve your adoptive parents, we’d have to start asking around on the sly.”

      But her voice trailed off as Monica Jordan came back out to the front desk with a manila folder in her hand. “Ladies,” she said, “I think I’ve found what you’re looking for.”

      They rose. Lydia’s heartbeat kicked up. They approached the counter where Ms. Jordan spread open the folder, filled with old newspaper articles that looked more black-and-yellow than black-and-white. And on top lay one with a photo of a crumpled buggy in a ditch and a dead horse.

      Lydia sucked in a sob. Any hurt or killed animal got to her, even when the local men went hunting. But this—her parents’ death scene...

      “Could we look at this over there?” Sandra asked the woman. “We’ll be very careful with it.”

      Evidently noting Lydia’s distress, Monica said, “It’s almost closing time, but I can photocopy it for you.”

      Lydia carried the warm copy of the article outside into the thickening dark. She cradled it to her cape; it seemed to burn her hand. When they got back in Sandra’s car, the overhead light popped on. Lydia was suddenly afraid to look at the picture again, though it didn’t show dead bodies. Sandra turned on the ignition and the heater, but it blew out cold air at first.

      “Can you read it out loud or should I?” Sandra asked.

      “I can. I want to—have wanted to for a long time,” Lydia whispered. Then, despite feeling chilled from within, she read aloud, “‘Young Amish Couple Die in Buggy Accident. Driver Cited.’”

      Lydia frowned. “Driver cited?” she muttered as Sandra leaned closer to look at the photo. The article was trembling in Lydia’s hand.

      “That means the driver of the car. Go on, and I’ll make notes,” she said, fumbling in her big purse for a pad and pen.

      Her voice shaking, Lydia went on.

      

      

      “A young Amish couple from the Charm, Ohio area, David Brand, age 24, and Lena Hostetler Brand, age 23...”

      

      

      Her voice caught. David and Lena, David and Lena... Their names were David and Lena... And her mother’s people were Hostetlers. She knew of some in this area, though not in the Homestead Amish church.

      She cleared her throat, blinked back tears and continued.

      

      

      “...were pronounced dead at the scene after a vehicle carrying four tourists from Parma, Ohio, struck their buggy at approximately 9:00 p.m. on Wednesday.

      Clinton MacKenney, the Holmes County sheriff at the scene, theorized that skid marks indicate the vehicle, a station wagon, careened over the hill behind the buggy at a speed of at least fifty miles per hour, could not stop in time and hit the buggy from the rear. Marvin Lowe, 65, was cited for driving over the speed limit with reckless abandon. Further charges of double manslaughter may be forthcoming.

      Lowe made no statement but said he will soon have a lawyer. His vehicle sustained minor damage...

      

      

      “Minor damage,” Lydia whispered, blinking back tears. “It isn’t fair. So perhaps there was a trial.”

      “But this gives us all we need to know to start searching.”

      “And there’s no way my mother could still be alive,” Lydia admitted with a sigh. She’d told Sandra about the note. “Talk about getting my hopes up...”

      Sandra shook her head. “So sad. A tragedy that could have been avoided. Do you want me to read the rest of it?”

      “Okay but I’m fine. Well, not really, but I want to find out no matter what.”

      Sandra took up where she’d left off.

      

      

      “Since it was nearly four hours after dark, the Brand buggy had two lanterns on the back, both surprisingly found still lighted in the ditch when medics and the sheriff arrived. The horse was also killed. The couple had wed barely a year ago and leave one infant daughter who is staying with relatives. David Brand was a tree cutter with a company in Amity.”

      

      

      “A tree cutter,” Lydia repeated. “I wish it said if they left behind other family—siblings, cousins.”

      “I can search for their obits later, and those might tell.”

      “Maybe. The Amish come from far and wide for funerals. More likely their obituaries appeared in The Budget, the national Amish newspaper. But I’m sure no one keeps clippings from that in folders or databases.”

      “I forget I’m dealing with an enclave culture here.”

      Another word Lydia didn’t know but she got the idea.

      “I just wonder,” Sandra said as she turned off the light on the car’s ceiling and backed out, “if the relatives you were staying with the night of the accident or thereafter are your adoptive parents or if there were others who took care of you at first. What’s the relationship between your adoptive father and your biological father?”

      “I’m not sure. A cousin, not first cousin. Ach, our people value family, even extended family, and many know their roots way back to the few Amish families who migrated from Europe to escape persecution there. And here, I know next to nothing,” she added, blinking back tears again.

      “But you know a lot more than a few minutes ago, and it gives me information to start digging. It’s obvious your real mother died in this accident,” she said, “but Victoria’s note gives us such an interesting twist we might still want to check it out.”

      “Yes, I still do,” Lydia told her, stroking the old photo of the scene of the double murder—that’s what it was, murder! Nothing to do about that this late, of course, except try to forgive. But unlike what her daad and mamm wanted, after today, she could never forget. Like she’d heard Josh say once when he was talking about his time in the world, A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

      7

      “Lydia, it’s so raw outside, and I’m afraid I’m getting a cold,” Mamm told her late Tuesday afternoon, the day after Lydia and Sandra had been to Wooster. She did, Lydia thought, sound nasal and had been blowing her nose, though sometimes she thought Mamm had private crying bouts and sounded like that, anyway.

      “I know you’re heading for the animal barn,” Mamm said, “but could you take these four loaves of bread outside to Mattie Esh for the Stark funeral?”

      Although Lydia had overheard that some local Amish women referred to her mother as “Sad Susan,” Mamm was also known in the community for her generous gifts of what most outsiders called Amish friendship bread. She gave loaves of it away for Christmas gifts and anytime the church had a special event. Even the local Englische knew to look for it in her plain brown wrappers at Amish benefits and yard sales.

      But Mamm kept the starter yeast mix and recipe to herself. Lydia had once asked why, when the sharing of those things was part of the idea of friendship. Her mother had simply said that the bread alone was her gift to her people. But Lydia came to believe the cinnamon-crunchy sweet bread was Mamm’s way of trying to make up for a tart tongue and sour outlook on life. And Mamm’s sending anything to the Starks surprised Lydia, though Mamm often contributed bread to local funerals.

      Pointing out the window,