She had never given him one sleepless night in ten years of marriage. Now, through a misjudgment on her part, a misstep that broke an English law, she was locked in a jail cell instead of being home where she belonged.
Why would an English judge require half a million dollars to make certain Abigail would appear in his courtroom? If he asked her to come back another day to state what happened at the Fisher farm, she would show up—not that she hadn’t already explained the events several times to the EMTs, the sheriff, the coroner, Dr. Weller, and to her court-appointed attorney. Did Englischers who ran afoul of the law pay such sums to the court? He couldn’t fathom it. Abby’s fancy-dressed lawyer had stopped over to explain the bondman’s business, and it smacked of money-changing in the temple in Daniel’s estimation. Plain folk didn’t put up titles to their farms to strangers in exchange for a guarantee that a man would appear in court, except that this person was a woman—and his wife, no less.
In all his life, Daniel could count on one hand the number of Amish folk who had ever been arrested. And the crimes committed had usually been for rumschpringe pranks of mischief.
Never a woman and certainly not the daughter of a bishop.
Each time he thought about the situation, he was filled with shame and anger. If that newcomer Nathan Fisher had called for an ambulance the way he should have, Abby wouldn’t be sitting in jail for doing nothing other than delivering a baby. Tomorrow, the bishop would visit with the other ministerial brethren to discuss what should be done. They would know how to get Abby back home where she belonged.
With tired muscles and a weary spirit, Daniel finished feeding the livestock and washed up in the former pump house. The old copper bathtub still leaned against the wall—a nostalgic reminder of Saturday night baths before the days of indoor plumbing and propane hot water tanks. His grossmammi used to heat kettles of water on the wood-fired stove and then scent the steaming tub with bayberries and cloves. Now they showered with soap-on-a-rope, and their Plain lifestyles had grown easier but not simpler.
When Daniel entered the house, he found Laura and Jake already seated at the table. His sister-in-law was pulling a fry pan from the oven with giant mitts. “Gut nacht, Catherine,” he mumbled, hanging his hat on a peg. He ruffled the downy blond hair of his son and pulled one of his daughter’s kapp strings.
“Good evening to you, Daniel. I was about ready to look for you. Laura said you liked to eat earlier than this, and everything has been finished for an hour.”
“I must finish chores before settling down to a meal.” He cast her an appraising glance. Was she scolding him on her first day in his home? Catherine was younger, smaller, and more opinionated than Abigail. It didn’t surprise him that no man was seriously courting her. Besides an ornery temperament, her dark hair was drab, whereas Abby’s auburn mane was as fiery as an autumn sunset. And Catherine’s eyes were a watery shade of blue instead of the rich sapphire of his wife’s.
“I said shall I scoop some noodles for you?” She hovered next to his chair with Abby’s favorite ceramic bowl in hand.
“Jah, give me a spoonful.” He speared two pieces of chicken from the platter and then placed a drumstick on each of the kinner’s plates. “Abby doesn’t use that bowl for everyday. She saves it for good.”
Catherine served noodles to his children and then sat down in his wife’s chair. “Why not? Using a bowl won’t wear it out like table linens or bed sheets.” She looked genuinely perplexed.
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask your sister that question.” He bit into a chicken breast. The breading was greasy yet the meat tasted dry. “Is there nothing to drink with this meal? Some cold milk or iced tea?”
“Sure, I’ll get the milk, but I didn’t make any tea. No one told me you favored it over milk or water.”
“I don’t particularly favor one over the other. Abigail sets both on the table and lets me decide.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Catherine took four glasses from the cupboard and the pitcher of milk from the refrigerator.
“The young ones use plastic cups, not glass.” Daniel watched her while trying to swallow the dry meat.
Her shoulders stiffened as she filled two glasses with milk and returned