The Witnesses Read online

  The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  THE WITNESSES

  Copyright © 2015 by Linda Byler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Byler, Linda.

  The witnesses / Linda Byler.

  pages cm. -- (Lancaster Burning ; Book 3)

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  ISBN 978-1-56148-822-3 (pbk.)

  1. Witnesses--Fiction. 2. Arson--Fiction. 3. Amish--Fiction. 4. Farm life--Pennsylvania--Lancaster County--Fiction. 5. Lancaster County (Pa.)--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.Y53W58 2014

  813’.6--dc232013044284

  ISBN: 978-1-56148-822-3

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-68099-083-6

  Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Text design by Cliff Snyder

  Printed in the United States of America

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Story

  The Glossary

  Other Books by Linda Byler

  The Author

  CHAPTER 1

  HE WAS HERE.

  She could see the sunlight glinting off the roof of his car. The new leaves were pushing out of the buds on the branches of the maples trees in the Stoltzfuses’ yard. They threw dancing shadows of sunlight across the vehicle, but she could easily see it from her station at the living room window. She dusted the philodendron plant and clipped a few yellowing leaves from an ivy, attempting to hide the fact that she was unable to keep from longing to see him.

  Would it be the same? Would her heart flutter in that same way, her breath quicken when he smiled? It had been so long.

  When she could no longer justify her presence at the window, she picked up the yellow can of furniture polish and moved to the sideboard. She lifted the crocheted doilies, the candleholders, and the basket of greeting cards to dust beneath them.

  As soon as she had that accomplished, the magnetic pull of Matthew’s car began all over again. Quickly, she stole another glance. The same dappled sunlight on the glossy roof of the car. He was still there.

  “Sarah.”

  She jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice.

  “Hmm?”

  “When you’re finished with the dusting, do you mind washing the floor? When Abram Miller’s family was here yesterday, their children got a bit lively, and the grape juice was spilled more than once.”

  Mam looked up from mixing the Crisco into the mound of soft, white flour, deftly incorporating it for the flaky pie crust she could always turn out. She stopped and blinked, her mouth drawing into a tight line as Sarah turned to glance out the living room window yet again.

  Mam knew.

  The knowledge rested uneasily on her rounded shoulders and the capable arms that cooked and cleaned for her large family, some of them strapping sons who had married and gone off to Dauphin County, where property prices were more affordable.

  Her large, white covering concealed her graying hair, or most of it. Her face was still smooth, though her glasses well worn. She was a comely older woman with years of compassion and hard work molding her features.

  Mam sighed and resumed her mixing, absentmindedly now. She rolled a bit of floured Crisco between her thumb and forefinger.

  So he was here.

  He came to see her later that evening, when Sarah least expected him. He bounded up on the porch when she was washing dishes, and she had no time to fix her hair or her covering or have a quick look in the mirror. All she could do was lift her hands from the soapy water and snatch up a corner of her black bib apron, wiping furiously as her heart began its usual wild take-off.

  His knock was the same. Rapid, eager.

  Sarah flew to the door, her feet skimming the kitchen floor, color rushing to her cheeks as she reached for the doorknob.

  Matthew Stoltzfus stood on the porch, his dark hair cut in a stylish manner, polished, in the English way. His eyes were still the same deep brown, but his skin was darker than she had ever seen it. When he smiled, those perfect white teeth dazzled her, and she became quite faint.

  “Sarah?”

  It was a question, a timid, quiet inquiry.

  Her eyes found his, and she was at home. After a long, arduous journey of a million years, she was home. The glad light in his eyes peeled away the thin reserve she had been able to build up, and with a broken cry of welcome, she flung herself into his arms.

  “Matthew!”

  Her cry was no more than a whisper. She felt his arms gather her trembling form against him, felt the soft fabric of his cotton shirt against her cheek. She closed her eyes to the unbelievable sensation of being in Matthew’s arms. Suddenly, the safety of those arms was pulled away as hard fingers closed around her forearms and pushed her away, firmly, cruelly.

  “No.”

  That was all he said. That one small word meant she had been bold, presumptuous.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her head was bent as she mumbled the words.

  “I’m a widower, Sarah.”

  “Yes, I heard. I was sorry to hear of it.”

  “Yes.”

  Matthew cleared his throat and looked around uneasily. He shifted his weight from one well-clad foot to the other.

  “Will your mam speak to me? Is your dat around?”

  “Yes, come in. Levi will be pleased.”

  Matthew smiled, and she had to tear her eyes away from his face.

  When they entered the kitchen, Mam turned from the pantry door, years of training hiding her emotions. She smiled, greeting Matthew with genuine friendliness.

  Matthew grasped her hand, saying, “God bless you,” and continued holding Mam’s hand until she gently tugged it away, and Matthew asked how she was doing.

  She inclined her head and answered, still reserved, but friendly, remembering the Matthew of years past. Hannah’s eldest son, the apple of her best friend’s eye.

  Levi sat at his window, his elbows propped on the arms of the swiveling desk chair, his narrowed, brown eyes alight with interest, his large body leaning forward with anticipation.

  “There’s Matthew!” he bellowed, breaking into a delighted laugh that bounced from wall to wall.

  Instantly, Matthew bounded to Levi’s side, one brown hand clapping his shoulder, another pumping Levi’s plump hand, leaving him giggling with happiness.

  Levi was a special character, the symptoms of Down syndrome endearing him to his family and the community. He often held court from his desk chair or the recliner, spreading humor and goodwill with his sometimes hilarious view of the world around him.

  “Levi, old boy! Good to see you!” Matthew said, sincere in his greeting of an old friend.

  Sarah stood rooted by the kitchen table, her large green eyes reflecting the worship she felt for Matthew. Tall, athletic, with curly brown hair, she carried herself with a finesse that
she was completely unaware of.

  “Where were you so long?” Levi inquired.

  Matthew laughed easily. Having known Levi as a small boy, he was accustomed to his lack of restraint.

  “In Haiti.”

  Levi nodded sagely, then looked up at Matthew with a cunning glance.

  “Snakes didn’t get you, huh?”

  Matthew laughed again and shook his head.

  “No, Levi, they didn’t.”

  “But your wife died.”

  “Yes.”

  Matthew’s features steadied, folded, the happiness now erased by his sorrow. His brown eyes turned liquid with the pain. Sarah had to grip the back of a kitchen chair to keep from going to him, running her hands over the beloved contours of his handsome face, replacing the pain with her love.

  Mam had to turn away from the raw yearning in her daughter’s eyes.

  They sat together later, on the same swing beneath the grapevines, in the chilly spring evening.

  Sarah wrapped her sweater securely around her body and drank in the words he spoke. She savored the sound of his voice, never tiring of hearing about his experiences in Haiti and his marriage to Hephzibah, the black woman he had loved, who had contracted a deadly strain of malaria.

  When darkness hid the stark brown vines surrounding them and her teeth began to chatter, Matthew said he should be going as his mother would wonder where he was.

  She could not let him go, not without knowing. She could not face the future without the assurance that he would stay.

  “Matthew.”

  He became very still, the desperation in her voice assaulting him.

  “You’ll be back? You’ll return to the Amish? You’ll come back to us and pick up where you left off? I mean, quite obviously, God wants you to be here. He took Hephzibah. So now your work in Haiti is done. It was a learning experience, and now you’ll be one of us again, right? I just need to know. Matthew, I have to know what you’re planning for the future.”

  She was babbling, becoming hysterical, her voice turning into a thin, reedy whine, and she didn’t care. This was her one chance.

  Matthew exhaled loudly, then spoke with the patient tone of one far superior.

  “Sarah, you just don’t get it, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t come back to the Amish. Your beliefs are all wrong.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, couldn’t you believe what you want and still be Amish?”

  There was a long silence, stony—hard, gray, and unrelenting.

  “Dat says there are many levels of faith. Some eat meat and others dare eat only herbs. But the way of love is for the lion to lie peacefully with the lamb. He says you don’t have to leave us to live as a Christian, the way you think.”

  Still Matthew stayed silent, which only increased Sarah’s desperate desire to win him back—back to her, back to the faith of their childhood.

  All her dreams were rolled into the vision of sitting beside him in a buggy, the warm summer air laden with the heady scent of flowers blowing gently through the open window. A good, sleek horse with a spirited head pulled them along, lifting his feet and making solid, ringing sounds against the macadam.

  She would be his wife, secure in the knowledge that he loved her, that he wanted her there beside him, and that she was worthy. It was all she wanted.

  “And Matthew, your parents would be so happy to have you return to the fold. You should think of them sometimes.”

  Matthew’s words were clipped, harsh.

  “My mother gave me her blessing the day I left, and you know it.”

  There was nothing to say to this.

  “I chose to serve God the way I want.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  There was no use angering him further. If she argued, she would lose him, certainly.

  “You really don’t get it, Sarah. You’re always going to stay Amish and not know any better.”

  Sarah bristled at the accusation in his voice, but she remained quiet.

  “You didn’t come to Haiti. You didn’t come. It’s your own fault that I married Hephzibah.”

  Sarah sat up very straight, the breath leaving her body in one quick expulsion, a sort of disbelief.

  “You didn’t want me!”

  The tortured words burst from her, lava wreaking havoc as it rained from the still bubbling volcano of her heart.

  The swing suddenly came to a stop. Somewhere an owl hooted, probably in the apple tree down by the orchard. Another one gave an answering call. A dog began a deep, anxious barking.

  “I did want you, Sarah. I was just afraid that you wouldn’t make the break with your parents. Your father is, after all, a man of God, a minister of the Amish church, and—I don’t know.”

  His voice became quiet and trailed off, leaving Sarah hanging on desperately, searching the vertical wall of his voice for one more chance, one more fissure to pull herself up.

  “You didn’t think I’d leave?”

  “No.”

  A song started in her heart then, the finely-tuned melody of repression and denial. She captured the knowledge that he had loved her, had wanted her, and still did.

  “Matthew,” she began, then choked and remained still.

  “I wanted to go, would have gone.”

  “Would you now?”

  “You know I would.”

  “I am a widower.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  Again, he sighed.

  “You must be sure.”

  “I love you, Matthew. I always have.”

  Victory was hers now, firmly in her grasp, the Olympic gold around her neck and lifted high.

  “If you love me, you’ll wait six months, and then we’ll leave. Your job is to persuade your parents.”

  “I will.”

  The old wooden swing creaked. A lamp was lit upstairs, creating a yellow rectangle of light where there had been only darkness. Priscilla and Suzie were getting ready for bed. It must be later than she thought.

  There was a woofing sound from the barnyard. The half moon rose above the implement shed, casting soft shadows across the newly tilled garden soil. Sarah thought of the insurmountable task she had promised.

  In a very small voice, she asked if he loved her enough to come home to his Amish roots.

  “Well, if that’s how you’re going to be, then just forget it,” he said, without wavering.

  “No, no, oh no.”

  She grasped his arms with nerveless fingers and implored him to have patience with her weakness. Then she gave up and threw herself into his arms, suddenly so aware of her need to feel secure, to grasp the fact that he did love her, without a smidgen of doubt.

  He did not resist her, crushing her to him as his mouth sought hers.

  Much later, she stumbled into her room and stood alone, her arms hanging by her sides, her senses reeling. A sob rose in her throat, then another. With steely resolve, she tamped down the tsunami of emotion, the quavering doubt and fear that threatened her.

  The next morning she was red eyed but awake, making desperate attempts to act normal. She was kind to Levi, spoke quietly to Mam, answered Dat’s questions honestly, but she was glad to escape when the school driver pulled into the driveway.

  Entering the schoolhouse, she raised the blinds. The sunshine etched streaks on the glass, highlighting the small dots of residue the sticky tack had left after they removed the valentines, the colorful pink and red decorations the children had made the month before. She would wash windows today, throw herself into her work with renewed energy.

  She greeted the children with a pale face, eyes that were brilliantly green, a smile that flashed a little too intensely. Rosanna lifted one shoulder, tossed her head, and said it must be that the teacher has a new boyfriend.

  Little David in second grade raised his hand and said Sammy stuck a pin in
his arm, whereupon that little person set up an awful howling of guilt and fear. He was duly punished, and quiet was restored.

  They decided to begin decorating for Easter that afternoon. Sarah stood with her pupils clustered around her, discussing the artwork they had done for Easter in previous years. She was amazed at their ideas and the willingness to submit them without a trace of the former animosity.

  At noon, she sat at her desk, opened her lunchbox, and spread the waxed paper carefully beside it. The thickly-cut baked ham drooped between the sliced whole wheat bread Mam had taken from the hot oven the evening before. The crisp lettuce was piled on top, and small streaks of mayonnaise clung to the golden brown crust. The scent of her sandwich mingled with the delicious smells that always accompanied the opening of twenty lunchboxes, and she could not imagine leaving the only life she knew.

  Her classroom was dear and familiar, the only challenge she had faced, the small victories she won here serving as stepping stones to a new and different school environment. Even in the past month, the victories had come one after another as the baby steps of progress she had made developed into toddler steps.

  Her reverie was broken by a blonde-haired, round form, eyes alight with pride, bearing a greasy wrapper.

  “Here! My mother made these.”

  “Oh. Oh, my goodness! A doughnut!”

  It was a soft cream-filled one, dusted liberally with powdered sugar, wrapped in brown paper.

  Surely this was not the same belligerent, impossible child that had entered her classroom that first day?

  Sarah’s voice shook as she thanked her over and over, an arm hugging the soft, chubby body against her, quick tears filling her eyes.

  When Rosanna offered to stay after school to wash windows, Sarah accepted happily. The extra help would allow a thorough job.

  They raised the blinds and set to work, efficiently removing every trace of smudges and fingerprints, chatting as if they had always been friends, which Sarah knew had certainly not been the case.

  Sarah was caught completely off guard when Rosanna eyed her frankly in that way only eighth grade girls can and blurted, “Hey, what was wrong with you this morning?”

  As the heat rose in her face, she rubbed vigorously at one spot on a window, biding her time, desperately trying to hide her face from Rosanna.