In Plain View (28 page)

Now it was the middle of October, and many speculated that the warfront would be quiet through the winter. Unpredictable weather made a march of any distance unlikely. Magdalena had been to the cabin twice since the Battle of Germantown and found nothing there but the dusty jars of preserves. She would never know if any of the letters she delivered had any bearing on the skirmishes around Berks County, much less Germantown or Philadelphia. No doubt by now Patrick and the others were serving in a British regiment with proper uniforms and exulting in the vice strangling the colonies’ capital. The Patriots would be forced to give up and the whole matter would be done with.

The gelding slowed a little too much, so Magdalena clicked for him to pick up his pace. She did have legitimate errands at three other farms this afternoon. The Bylers were well known for their apple cider, and Babsi was sending a jug to every family that had helped feed this year’s apples into the press. As always, Magdalena would stop in at the Buerkis’ before heading home. She wavered between hope and relief every day. She always hoped Nathan would be at the house and she could once again search his face for signs that he loved her. When he was not there, though, at least for one more day she savored the reprieve of not seeing the answer she refused to accept.

She knew that the girls she had gone to school with whispered behind her back. They were married and producing children. Magdalena could have been married, too, they thought, if she would accept the truth that Nathanael was never coming back to her. The war around them had no bearing on the availability of Amish men. A half a dozen would have been interested in Magdalena with even slight encouragement from her.

But none of the men was Nathanael, and they knew not to invite Magdalena to ride with them to a singing or apple schnitzing.

If Magdalena ever married one of them, it would not be for love.

“Come on, Old Amos,” Magdalena said to the horse who was slowing down yet again. “We can’t sit here in the middle of the fields all day.” She nudged the horse, but he took only a half dozen steps before stopping.

Old Amos deserved his name.
Daed
paid little for the animal four years ago because the horse was already ancient. Hardly worth what it cost to feed him, he was no use for anything more than drawing the lightest cart on the simplest errands. Magdalena tried again to get him to move forward, but Old Amos neighed and stayed put. Magdalena would have to get out and lead him. Perhaps with her weight out of the cart he would be willing to pull the jugs of apple cider. Grabbing the halter on both sides of the animal’s face, Magdalena leaned away from him.

And then she saw what had made him stop.

The red coat was ripped in at least three places, and the white breeches were ground brown with mud. She supposed his hat was lost in battle, and he carried no weapon. He lay on the ground, unmoving.

A true British soldier. He must have come from the battle at Germantown, but that had been days ago and miles away.

Magdalena let go of the horse’s halter and took three steps toward the side of the road, where the ground sloped and pebbles skittered under her feet. When she saw the unkempt dark hair, she thought for a moment it was Patrick finally in the uniform he dreamed of. But it was not him.

The soldier’s eyes were closed, but his chest seemed to lift slightly. Or at least she thought it did. She would have to get closer to be sure. She scratched her way down the hill about twenty feet then stopped once more to watch his chest.

Yes, he was breathing.

And bleeding.

When his eyes popped open, Magdalena gasped. They stared at each other for a frozen moment.

“Can you speak?” Magdalena finally asked. She knelt at his side and gingerly began to inspect him.

“Yes,” he said.

In that one word, she could tell he had come from England and not one of the other colonies.

“Where is the wound?”

“My belly. Are you a Patriot?”

She met his eyes then shook her head.

“A sympathizer, then,” he said. “I suppose that is good, though I don’t care anymore.”

He did not recognize the meaning of her Amish prayer
kapp
and she did not correct him. She had never called herself a sympathizer, but perhaps she was one.

Magdalena undid the last remaining button on his coat and gently separated the shredded red wool from his bloodied shirt. Pushing up the once-white shirt, she exposed the wound—and nearly had to turn away as the contents of her stomach rose to her throat. The hole in his side had been bandaged hastily with cotton strips that nearly fell apart at the touch of her fingers. Fresh blood oozed. Magdalena pulled her shawl off her shoulders and grimaced as she pressed it against the wound.

“I have a horse and cart up on the road. Do you think you can stand?”

“I’ve come all the way from Germantown, haven’t I?”

“I’m astounded you’ve managed to come so far.” She helped him sit up and tried to determine the best way to support his weight. It seemed unfeasible that he had been roaming the Pennsylvania countryside in this condition, yet here he was. Gray skinned and prone, but alive.

“I’m not going back,” the man croaked.

“No one here will ask you to. Let’s try to stand.”

“War is a hideous thing. I am not going back.”

“Don’t worry about that now.” Magdalena glanced up the hill at Old Amos and the cart. She put one of the soldier’s arms around her shoulder, gripped his dangling wrist, and sucked in a deep breath. She stood, pulling him upright alongside her.

Magdalena had never heard such a scream as the one that roared from his lungs now. By the time she managed to get him up the hill and draped him across the cart, he was unconscious.

Magdalena turned the horse and cart in the narrow road and headed toward home. The apple cider deliveries would have to wait for another day. By the time she pulled the cart up as close to the front porch of her family’s home as she could get, assorted family members had gathered. She caught her father’s eyes as they carried the soldier inside the house and laid him on the table. Babsi went to work cleaning the ragged wound. Magdalena’s younger sisters scurried from the water barrel with clean rags, while her brother Hansli stoked the fire that warmed the room.

“Magdalena?”

She turned toward her father’s voice.

“Do you know this man?”

“No,
Daed
. I only found him and wanted to help.”

He nodded slowly. “You did the right thing to bring him.”

“I was not sure you would welcome a soldier in the house,” Magdalena said.

“He is not a soldier now, only a man who has lost a great deal of blood.”

Magdalena exhaled abruptly and heavily. She had not realized she was rationing her own breath.

“I thought you wanted to be neutral,” she said.

“I am neutral. Today I will help this British soldier, and if tomorrow a Patriot turns up on our porch in need, I will help him also. Neutrality does not mean we turn our backs on humanity.”

“Thank you,
Daed.”

“You are pale,” he said. “His blood is all over you. Go clean up.”

“I should help take care of him,” she said.

“You have done your part.”

Magdalena nodded but could not tear her eyes off the soldier. She wanted to believe that had he been a bleeding Patriot foot soldier, she would have done the same thing.

But she was not sure.

Thirty

R
ufus was in the small cart. He almost had not come.

The message that summoned him was vague, cryptic, unsigned. It sounded like some sort of mistake. A note had turned up in his toolbox that afternoon. It could have been for anyone. But something about it made him think he would regret disregarding it. He twisted his torso to look at the open toolbox behind him. The note fluttered loose and escaped the buggy on the breeze. Rufus reached for it and missed. Dolly continued to trot forward. It was probably nothing, but he cared about the rock and wanted to be sure he would see nothing unusual there.

Instead, wide tire tracks rutted through the grass—fresh tracks, prompting Rufus to signal Dolly to speed up. He passed a bicycle tumbled in the weeds. Annalise’s bicycle.

Rufus had never heard a bomb, but he imagined it would sound just like the blast that split the air

“Annalise!”

Annie fumbled with her phone as she charged the last few yards up the incline. By the time she squatted next to Karl, splayed on his back, she had it open, but her thumb slid off the power button three times before the device began cycling on. For a few seconds, she was terrified it would not find a signal.

“Karl!”

No response.

“Karl, can you hear me?”

Finally her trembling finger pushed the buttons for 911. With her free hand, Annie thumped Karl’s shoulder, trying to rouse him. Her eyes scanned for blood—which seemed minimal. What she saw were burns. And beyond Karl, weeds smoldered and flared. Annie dropped the open phone, leaped over Karl, and stomped on flames. They spurted up in new spots as fast as she could kick dirt on them. A more heavily grassed area might already have been out of control. The wind was calm, though, and loose dirt abounded. Both factors worked in her favor. Annie shed her jacket and used it to smother bouncing sparks.

“Karl!”

Still no response.

Rufus spotted Karl’s car, and terror welled. He thought he had made progress with Karl. Why would the man lure Annalise up here? Whatever story he had concocted had to have been good.

Unless there was no story.

Unless Karl had not lured Annalise at all.

Unless Karl got the same sort of ambiguous, handwritten message that had drawn Rufus to this moment.

Annie was far from certain the ground cover would not spark again when she turned back to Karl, who lay silent and still. Once upon a time, Annie had been certified in first aid. A for airway. B for breathing. C for…C for. Cardiac something. No. Circulation.

“You have dialed 911.” A crackly distant voice bore into Annie’s awareness. “Do you have an emergency? We are unable to fix your location.”

The phone! Annie snatched it up to her ear. “Don’t hang up!”

“What is the location of your emergency?” the 911 dispatcher asked.

Annie glanced around. “I don’t know the address. I’m out behind the Beiler farm, where they’re thinking about making the new recreation area.”

“What is the nature of the emergency?”

“An explosion. I think somebody tried to blow up the big rock.” Annie leaned over Karl and turned her ear to his mouth. “Karl Kramer is injured. He’s breathing, but he’s unconscious.”

Annie pressed fingers into Karl’s neck to look for a pulse.

“Help is already on the way,” the dispatcher said. “Do you have any reason to believe drugs or alcohol may have played a role in this incident?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

“Are any weapons involved?”

“You mean other than the bomb?!” Annie’s heart galloped in her chest.

“Please remain calm, ma’am. I have already dispatched an emergency team. The information you give me now will assist them when they arrive. Tell me about the victim and the injuries.”