The Amish Midwife - By Mindy Starns Clark Page 0,30

of the landing, she pointed to the right. “That’s Mom’s room.” The door was closed. “Here’s the bathroom.” She pointed across the hall and then to the left. “And my room.” Her door was closed too. “You can sleep here.” She turned and behind her was a little alcove with a single bed.

“Thank you.” I stepped around her and wedged my suitcase into the little space next to the wall, wondering if it would be better if I found a hotel. Or a bed-and-breakfast in Strasburg. But then I’d have even fewer opportunities to get information out of Marta.

“Do you have anything else in your car that you need?” the girl asked.

I started to shake my head but stopped. “Well, there is a carry-on bag in the trunk. Maybe I shouldn’t leave it out there.” I doubted if crime was much of a problem in the area, but I didn’t want to risk it.

The girl held out her hand. “I’ll go get it for you.”

I handed her my keys and collapsed on the bed. When she returned she cleared her throat, and I forced my eyes open.

“I’m Ella.” She stood over me, the box in her hand.

I smiled. She looked like an Ella. “I’m Lexie,” I answered.

“I know. You said that when you first got here.”

“You’re right,” I answered, propping myself up on my elbow.

“It fell out of the bag.” She held the wooden box out to me. “I’ve seen this house before.”

“Where?” I asked, sitting up all the way and taking the box.

She placed the bag on the end of the bed and tilted her head. “I’m trying to remember.” She wrinkled her cute little nose. “It’s not coming to me, but it will.” She turned to go and then said over her shoulder, “We’ll eat in fifteen minutes.”

“Wait. I have a question.”

She stopped.

“At the Amish birth tonight, the family had a stove and a fridge.”

“So?”

“I thought the Amish didn’t use electricity.”

“They use other kinds of power,” she said. “Those were probably propane.”

“Oh.” I vaguely recalled that the Mennonites in Kansas related to Mama didn’t use electricity. I’d been thankful growing up that we weren’t part of that group. But I didn’t remember that they used other sources of power. I reclined back on the bed, my arm draped over the box.

When I awoke the next morning, I still had my jacket on and my baby quilt was tucked under my chin. The box was gone.

EIGHT

According to my nearly dead cell phone, it was eight thirty. I’d had a text from James late last night asking if I had arrived, but I hadn’t heard the message alert, let alone replied. I answered now with a quick Yep, realizing as I hit “send” that it was only five thirty in Oregon, and it would be a while before he got it.

I slipped out of bed, noting that the house was completely quiet, and searched the little alcove for the box and then retreated to the first floor. It was immaculate. Not a dirty dish in the sink. Not a book or a pair of shoes or a stack of papers anywhere. There was a note in block letters on the table. Oatmeal in the cupboard, milk in the fridge. Have a good day! Love, Ella. And at the bottom of the note, in different handwriting: Prenatal @ 10 a.m. Be ready by 9:15. It wasn’t signed, but I was sure it was from Marta. For a woman who didn’t want to talk with me when I arrived, she certainly seemed to be taking me for granted now. Fortunately for her I was desperate enough for answers to put up with her brusqueness.

I searched the kitchen for coffee but couldn’t find a drop or bag or bean. I did find tea bags and made the strongest cup of tea I could manage. I drank it as I walked through the cottage, searching for my box. Zed’s room was off the kitchen, but I didn’t go in. Back upstairs, Ella’s door was open a crack and I pushed it gently. She had a twin bed with a solid blue cover, a straight-back chair, a small desk, and a dresser. The walls were bare. At the far end was a row of pegs with dresses and a coat hanging on them. The box wasn’t anywhere visible. Maybe Marta had taken it.

I eased open her door. The sunlight came in through the window over the bed, which was covered with a plump comforter and