"Amish can understand explosives without being violent toward other people."

Sophie said nothing.

"You're holding something back," Annie said. "What is it?"

Sophie raised her shoulders. "A couple of people may suspect you."

"Me!"

"You were there. You understand these things. You could have made the call that...that..."

Annie rescued Sophie from having to finish that sentence. "I was an expert in a lot of things before I came to Westcliffe, but I promise you explosives was not on the list."

"I don't believe it, of course. No one at our house does."

"I should hope not. Do you know what happened to my bicycle?"

Sophie grimaced. "Joel looked for it when he went for Dolly and the cart, but the police said it was evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"Well, maybe not evidence. But something to investigate."

Annie slapped her torso against the back of the sofa. "Great. Now I have no transportation. I suppose they have my book, too."

"Your book?"

"I picked up a genealogy book at the library yesterday before everything happened. It came all the way from a university in Indiana. I'm sure it was in the basket."

Sophie removed the towel and nudged the basket toward Annie. "I do have one more question from Mamm."

Annie reached forward and pinched a wedge out of a large chocolate cookie. "Yes?"

"Please come home with me. Lydia is shopping for a few things, so we have the buggy. Mamm wants to see for herself that you are all right." Sophie paused for a breath. "She thinks of you as her own daughter, you know."

Annie's throat thickened. She would be sure not to repeat Franey's sentiment in her letter to her mother.

"Please?" Sophie said. "We all want you to come. You can stay the night."

Annie shook her head. "No, I want to sleep in my own bed."

"Supper, then." Sophie cocked her head. "Rufus should be there."

Ruth twisted her backpack around. Even though her phone was set on vibrate and tucked in a side pocket of the bag, she heard its distinct insistent tone above the rhythm of the bus pulling out of the stop. She did not have to look at the caller ID. It was Elijah Capp. This was the fifth time he had called in the last three hours.

She pulled the phone from the pocket and wrapped her fingers around it, waiting for it to stop buzzing. Elijah deserved a face-to- face conversation, but so far she had not even been able to answer his last several letters. In her mind, she crafted phrases but was dissatisfied with every version. When she found the right words, perhaps she would have the courage to put them on paper. A letter he could hold on to might encourage him more to find his own path. Or hurt him more.

The bus lumbered to the next stop. Ruth stood and slung the backpack over one shoulder, awaiting the sucking whoosh of the doors parting at the bottom of the rubber-coated stairwell. The bus driver, who had been letting her off at this stop for two years, nodded a good-bye into his enormous rearview mirror. Ruth took the steps lightly, as she always did, and the doors suctioned closed behind her.

She could easily imagine what Elijah had to say. He had said everything before, after all. Perhaps she did not have anything new to say, either.

Ruth put her key in the lock of her suite and leaned into the door with one shoulder, a motion of habit. Inside, as she slid a key into the door to her room, she listened for activity in any of the other three rooms. She tossed the backpack and the keys onto her bed, with a fleeting thought that Elijah might be surprised at how thoroughly she was acclimated to the assumption that someone would try to steal her belongings.

"Boo!"

Ruth spun around and grinned. "Hi, Lauren. How is your Tuesday going?"

"I'm ready to blow this joint."

Ruth rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Do people really say that?"

"I'm people. I say it."

"What's the munitions report for the day?"

"My dad Skyped my brother today, then called me. He hasn't blown up anything even for practice in more than three weeks. He's getting antsy."

What would Elijah think about this conversation? The peaceful plain people hardly had use for a word like munitions, but it tripped off Ruth's tongue almost daily now.

Lauren punched the air. "You said you were going to do this. Are you ready?"

"Well, maybe-"

"Oh, no, no, no. There will be no withdrawal tactics now. Bring your identification documents and cash for the fee. They don't take plastic."

"All right," Ruth said. "Just give me a couple minutes to freshen up."

Lauren closed the door on her way out. Ruth went to the dresser, unpinned her hair, brushed it, and pinned it up again in a matter of seconds. From her bottom desk drawer she took the required documents then fished in her backpack for her small wallet.

She flinched when her phone buzzed yet again, but she ignored it. A moment later, though, she heard the notification that someone had left a message.

Elijah would no sooner leave a message on a phone than he would drive a car.

But he had. Something was wrong. She just knew it. She lifted the phone to look at the screen. Four unanswered calls. A rock formed in the pit of her stomach.

Finally Ruth accessed her voice mail. The rock turned hot. "Lauren!"

Joel was not there for supper. Annie heard the sigh in Eli's voice after the silent prayer at the beginning of the meal.

"He'll come around," Franey said softly in Pennsylvania Dutch. "He must."

Eli scowled into the bowl of peas and carrots.

Rufus was missing as well. As much as she loved Franey- and the whole Beiler family-Annie could not help but be disappointed.

"He went with Tom to see Karl." Franey seemed to read Annie's mind as she passed the mashed potatoes. "They've been gone most of the day."

Annie nodded and held the bowl of potatoes while Jacob served himself.

"Don't take more than you'll eat," Franey cautioned her youngest.

After supper, Sophie and Lydia were clearing the table, having refused Annie's offer of help, so Annie took her unfinished note card to the living room. Determined to tell her parents the truth about what happened, she did not want to be dramatic. Just the facts. She was still chewing on the top of her pen with the note in her lap when she heard Tom's truck. With a glance toward the empty dining room, Annie crossed to the front door and met Rufus on the porch.

On Saturday he kissed her, after months of holding back. On Sunday he drove her home with murmurs of assurance that Beth Stutzman meant nothing to him. Yesterday he held her hand in the ambulance and all the way home in Tom's truck. It all felt so long ago. She wished she could run into his arms now, feel his heartbeat, his hand at the back of her neck. Perhaps he would take her home again. He could let Dolly slow her pace, as he held the reins with one hand and her fingers with the other.

He gave her a tired smile. "Hi."

"Hi," Annie said. "How is Karl?"

"Okay. It won't be long till he's released. The burns looked worse than they are." Rufus leaned against the house, next to the door. The porch light spilled over him. "At least that's what the nurse said when she came in to change the dressings. I doubt she was supposed to tell us even that much."

"Did he say what happened? Why he was there?"

Rufus shook his head. "The nurse said someone from the sheriff 's office had been there, but Karl was asleep from the pain medication."

"He sounded really angry yesterday," Annie said.

Rufus nodded. "He still is, when he's awake. He's not going to let go of this."

"Can you blame him? Somebody put him in the hospital. He has a right to know what happened."

Her words hung in the air, and she regretted them. This was Rufus. Last year somebody put Rufus in the hospital-probably Karl Kramer-and Rufus had let it go. Only pride, hochmut, demanded rights. Humility, demut, did not.

Annie stifled a groan. She was never going to learn to be Amish at this rate.

Rufus closed a hand over the fist that held her pen. "What are you writing?"

"A note to my parents. I have to tell them, but I am not ready for a phone call."

"I understand. Just be sure to sign the note."

She tilted her head, questioning.

"I suppose I will have to tell the police about the note I received." Rufus scratched the back of one ear.

Annie's pulse pounded. "What note?"

He squeezed her fingers. "One that I suspect is very similar to the one that prompted Karl to go out to the rock."

"Rufus! Why didn't you say something last night?"

"Too much was going on. And I don't have the note. It blew out of the buggy on my way out to the rock-before I realized it could be important."

"Who would want to hurt both Karl and you?" Not Joel. Certainly not Joel. Holes like Joel made swiss cheese of Annie's flimsy theory.

She savored the sensation of his hand around hers. If someone was trying to hurt Rufus, her investigation was far from over.

Thirty-Two.

March 1778 We never clear this part of Grossmuder's garden. Why are we doing it this year?"

Jacob looked at his son. At thirteen, the boy had recently announced he no longer wanted to be Jacob Franklin, but simply Franklin. The decision amused Jacob and Katie, but they made the transition with surprising ease. Franklin hoarded pamphlets published by Benjamin Franklin no matter what the topic. Over the winter he seemed to grow four inches in his arms and legs and now was almost as tall as Jacob.

Jacob reached down with a broad hand and pulled out a tangle of withered bindweed from summers past. "It's too overgrown. We should have done this years ago." He filled both arms with weeds and heaped them on a pile he would burn later.

"Are we going to plant this part?" Franklin wanted to know.

"Maybe. When I was a boy we used to grow beets in this section." Maria's beets. That was what it had been. Jacob made no effort to hide from his children that he had a sister who disappeared decades ago, but rarely did anyone speak her name.

"I don't much like beets." Franklin yanked on a vine that was as long as he was tall.

"We don't have to plant beets. It's up to Grossmuder. Even if she does not want to plant anything, we should clean it up."

Franklin straightened and gestured down the hill. "Were you really born in that old cabin?"

"Yes, I was. My parents felt fortunate to have that shelter in the homesteading days." Jacob used the structure to store assorted farm tools now.

"And now we're a new country!" Franklin wrapped a thick, thorny, knee-high weed with a rag then gripped it with both hands and pulled. The weed surrendered its existence. He held it up. "I got the whole root." Franklin tossed it on the burn pile.

Jacob smiled and nodded.

"That's what we have to do with the British," Franklin said. "We have to get rid of the whole lot of them. As soon as I'm old enough, I'm going to fight."

Jacob sincerely hoped the fighting would be over long before Franklin could enlist, though he had heard of boys as young as fifteen finding a place in the militia. Franklin's voice had already deepened, and he had the height of a man.

"Do not glamorize war," Jacob said. "It is ugly business."

"But it's your business, isn't it?" Franklin yanked another weed. "It seems to me, it's the business of all red-blooded American men some way or another."

"Men," Jacob said, "not boys. You are thirteen and needed on the farm."

"I won't always be thirteen."

"And I hope there won't always be a war."

"We have to win, Daed. We can't stop until we win."

Jacob knelt and raked his fingers through the earth of a square yard cleared of weeds. Enough talk of war. "It's warm enough and the soil is soft enough. We should turn the earth once we get it cleared."

"Today?"