woman?
“Thank you. That means more than you can know.”
Again she waved that dismissive hand, as though her offer were of no importance. “You are welcome. I will deal with Rachel.”
The wind-up clock in the kitchen chimed four o’clock.
“I promised Eli I would help him with his milking this morning in half an hour.”
“That is most interesting.” She peered at him over her glasses. “Eli is fussy about who touches his cows. Have you ever milked before?”
“No.”
She chuckled. “Then you will be learning much. Help me get this big boy back onto the couch. I will stay with him while you help Eli. I think you will be needing some breakfast before you leave. I will show you where things are.”
Quietly, Rachel crept back upstairs in her stocking feet. The house was sturdily built. Long-gone Amish carpenters had seen to that, and the stairs did not creak. She was especially grateful now for those ancient carpenters, because she did not want Joe and Bertha to know that she had been listening.
Unfortunately, after coming downstairs to use the bathroom, she had heard only a few snatches of their conversation—something about a murder and the child being in the house with his mother.
She now had something to go on. A partial story to research. License tags to trace. And the water glass that Joe had held to the little boy’s lips. It was in a plastic bag now, readied for fingerprinting tomorrow morning.
She had the tools to discover the true identity of the man her aunts were so innocently harboring.
Chapter Seven
“Das iss goot.” Eli nodded his approval of Joe’s full pail of foaming milk.
Joe felt as proud of his accomplishment as if he had won a trophy. Spending the early morning hours helping Eli milk the cows had proven to be a study in humility. If he had a shred of pride left after everything he had been through during the past few days, it would have dissipated the moment he walked into this Amish farmer’s barn.
He had never felt so clumsy and less skilled in his life. Manually milking a cow was no walk in the park. Had there been machinery involved, he might have been able to redeem himself, but Eli milked the old-fashioned way—head against the side of the cow and hands on udders that had been soaped and rinsed off in early-morning darkness dispelled only by lantern light.
Eli had been in high good humor as he instructed Joe in the fine art of milking, watching with a solemn expression that occasionally slipped into a goofy grin while Joe repeatedly and unsuccessfully tried to coax a stream of milk into a pail. Once he had achieved a minimal amount of success, Eli had proceeded to strip the milk from three cows to every one of Joe’s.
It was becoming apparent that Eli did not need the help as much as he needed the company and the entertainment that watching a novice provided. Joe figured he had inadvertently become Eli’s own private Saturday morning cartoon show.
It didn’t bother Joe in the least. He had received enough public adulation to last him several lifetimes. The realization that he was giving the old Amishman so many reasons to chuckle into his beard had pleased him.
And yet there came a moment when he finally figured out how to make the milk ring in strong streams against the inside of the metal bucket. The chore settled into a peaceful rhythm as he watched the fresh, pure milk rise in the bucket.
The sounds of the farm awakening around him had the soothing impression of classical music, as the patient cows munched their fodder and the roosters at both Eli’s and the Troyer sisters’ farms competed in an early morning crowing contest. The sound of horses’ hooves clip-clopping down the road as Amish men and women went to work created a sort of counter-beat to the barnyard symphony.
Eli had splashed part of Joe’s earlier milking into a round pan that was immediately ringed by a barn cat and her six kittens. Joe was surprised to hear the tiny kittens growling
“Thank you. That means more than you can know.”
Again she waved that dismissive hand, as though her offer were of no importance. “You are welcome. I will deal with Rachel.”
The wind-up clock in the kitchen chimed four o’clock.
“I promised Eli I would help him with his milking this morning in half an hour.”
“That is most interesting.” She peered at him over her glasses. “Eli is fussy about who touches his cows. Have you ever milked before?”
“No.”
She chuckled. “Then you will be learning much. Help me get this big boy back onto the couch. I will stay with him while you help Eli. I think you will be needing some breakfast before you leave. I will show you where things are.”
Quietly, Rachel crept back upstairs in her stocking feet. The house was sturdily built. Long-gone Amish carpenters had seen to that, and the stairs did not creak. She was especially grateful now for those ancient carpenters, because she did not want Joe and Bertha to know that she had been listening.
Unfortunately, after coming downstairs to use the bathroom, she had heard only a few snatches of their conversation—something about a murder and the child being in the house with his mother.
She now had something to go on. A partial story to research. License tags to trace. And the water glass that Joe had held to the little boy’s lips. It was in a plastic bag now, readied for fingerprinting tomorrow morning.
She had the tools to discover the true identity of the man her aunts were so innocently harboring.
Chapter Seven
“Das iss goot.” Eli nodded his approval of Joe’s full pail of foaming milk.
Joe felt as proud of his accomplishment as if he had won a trophy. Spending the early morning hours helping Eli milk the cows had proven to be a study in humility. If he had a shred of pride left after everything he had been through during the past few days, it would have dissipated the moment he walked into this Amish farmer’s barn.
He had never felt so clumsy and less skilled in his life. Manually milking a cow was no walk in the park. Had there been machinery involved, he might have been able to redeem himself, but Eli milked the old-fashioned way—head against the side of the cow and hands on udders that had been soaped and rinsed off in early-morning darkness dispelled only by lantern light.
Eli had been in high good humor as he instructed Joe in the fine art of milking, watching with a solemn expression that occasionally slipped into a goofy grin while Joe repeatedly and unsuccessfully tried to coax a stream of milk into a pail. Once he had achieved a minimal amount of success, Eli had proceeded to strip the milk from three cows to every one of Joe’s.
It was becoming apparent that Eli did not need the help as much as he needed the company and the entertainment that watching a novice provided. Joe figured he had inadvertently become Eli’s own private Saturday morning cartoon show.
It didn’t bother Joe in the least. He had received enough public adulation to last him several lifetimes. The realization that he was giving the old Amishman so many reasons to chuckle into his beard had pleased him.
And yet there came a moment when he finally figured out how to make the milk ring in strong streams against the inside of the metal bucket. The chore settled into a peaceful rhythm as he watched the fresh, pure milk rise in the bucket.
The sounds of the farm awakening around him had the soothing impression of classical music, as the patient cows munched their fodder and the roosters at both Eli’s and the Troyer sisters’ farms competed in an early morning crowing contest. The sound of horses’ hooves clip-clopping down the road as Amish men and women went to work created a sort of counter-beat to the barnyard symphony.
Eli had splashed part of Joe’s earlier milking into a round pan that was immediately ringed by a barn cat and her six kittens. Joe was surprised to hear the tiny kittens growling
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